The Grim Reaper has an office on fourth street. He works on the 13th floor of the Edath complex in a small office with faded gray walls and filing cabinets. People schedule appointments to argue their cases over whether or not they should die from sunrise to sunset, and at night he files paperwork.

There at his broad desk sat the old man, his complexion pale and eyes sunken deep into his skull. They had once burned a fierce red color but the years had caused them to pale to an unfitting glassy pink. He still wore his iconic black robe, shadowing his gaunt face, but he had long abandoned the scythe which sat dusty from disuse in the corner, by the coffee maker. For awhile he had tried to catch up with the times by getting a lawnmower to replace it but it just didn’t work. Now all of his work was done with a pen.

His pale skin sat loosely on his bony framework like a white sheet that was near about to fall off entirely. Atop his head was a patch of long and gray frayed hair that he occasionally dyed black. Spiders would often nest behind his flaky ears as ants crawled through the sockets of his eyes and out his nose. That is, until they itched so bad that he’d rub his nose and they’d all scatter.

There was a woman standing on the other side of the desk, her eyes wide with terror. She frantically began to spin a story trying to win over his sympathy, telling him about all the good she has done in the world, and how the accident wasn’t her fault. But the Grim Reaper just flipped through a folder of musty paperwork and looked up at her with his drooping eyes.

“It says here you died in a car accident, if I’m right.” He said, his voice gravelly.

“Yes but I’m telling you, it wasn’t my fault!”

“If that was the case, but it says here you were drunk.”

“They were going too fast!”

“If you say so. Let’s see, you killed a family of three. And you hit a dog.”

“But really I’m a good person!”

“If I knew otherwise, but this says here you were a drug addict too.”

He could see her face was blushed, either from the tears that wanted to break free or the alcohol. He flipped through his papers some more and clicked his pen, drawing a circle around the woman’s name.

“If I could see the next person please?” He sighed.

The woman jumped up and down with elation, delighted that he had not crossed out her name. A black crow dove off from the coffee maker, where she had been perched, and ushered the woman out the door, signaling the next person to come in.

A blonde haired man, his face pure and unmarked, emerged from the doorway shrouded in a heavenly glow. He had wings as white as doves, and a golden halo crowning his head. The white robe, beautiful and flowing, wavered behind him, hitting the crow in the face.

“If you do that to my secretary she’ll get mad and won’t make my coffee right.” The Grim Reaper said with a sigh.

“Alright, then I shall do it ‘nevermore’!” Said the angel.

“If she was a raven that would be funny.”

“Whatever, old man.”

“I still have people out there, if it’s not sunset. What do you want Gabriel?”

“I have a different proposal for you, this one I think you’ll like. Could you at least have a look at it?”

“If I was interested I would, but I’m not retiring. I’ve got too much to do to retire. So piss off.”

The Grim Reaper waved his bony fingers at Gabriel, motioning him to leave as he took up his pen. He looked over the next set of papers and reached for his coffee mug, sipping down the black and bitter liquid.

“Don’t be sour. You could at least look it over.”

“And if not? Go blow a horn.”

“Fine. By the way your skin is falling off.”

Gabriel slammed the door behind him, causing the walls to vibrate and the ants to scatter on his desk. The Grim Reaper shook his head and called out again.

“If I could see the next person please?”

#

Morning would find the old man stooped over his desk, face buried in his papers. The hood of his robe veiled him, muffling the sound of a beak rapping at his door, little talons frantically scratching to get in. There were no windows in his office, so it was impossible to tell what time of day it was. But he knew when each morning began.

He slowly got up, knees trembling under his own weight, and shuffled slowly to the door, bare feet dragging against the wooden floor boards. The nails of his toes left scuff marks forming a trail from his desk to the door. He jiggled the loose handle and the door creaked open. In flopped the little black corvid, parcel betwixt her beak. She hobbled across the floor and hopped up onto his desk, bobbing her head up and down.

“You wouldn’t be so jittery if you drank less coffee.” He commented, taking the note from her beak.

It was folded and sealed with a golden wax seal; a trumpet. Carefully he broke the seal with his jaundiced nails, ingrown and overgrown. It was crinkly yet delicate, with a fine texture. But the words on the top, in bold red ink, forged the words ‘EVICTION’.

He crumbled the note and tossed it to the floor, moving over to his desk. After sitting for a moment, he got back up, picked up the balled paper, and straightened it on the edge of the table as one would a dollar bill. He plucked a folder from one of the cabinets and stored the note away; no point in making his floor messy.

“If that pansy wants my job, he’ll have to pry it from my already dead hands.”

#

Once again, like clockwork, a line had formed outside his door, the impatient masses waiting for their judgment. Would they won’t they, all of their bright eyes upon him, begging, pleading. He made sure to pull the hood of his robe tighter over his head, casting shadows in the crevices of his face.

The first one came in, and then the second and the third. With the click of pen and a motion of the wrist, he judged them one by one. Circles and x’s. In between each person he took another swig of coffee but inevitably he just sank deeper into his chair, the joints of his bones filled with ache.

And then finally came Gabriel, the edges of his lips curled into a smirk as the door opened, his wavering robe hitting the Grim Reaper’s assistant in the face. He strode up to the desk and leaned on one hand.

“I thought you’d have packed up your things by now.” He said, grinning.

“I’d have done so, if I were going somewhere. Now if you would I’m busy.”

“I know you’re still sour old man but it was an order from the Big Man himself. Time to go.”

“If I could see the next person please?”

“If if if, always if. Talk straight for once.”

“Talk straight? If that wasn’t coming from the man who blows horns for a living-”

“That’s it!”

Gabriel slammed his other fist down on the desk, yet the whole room shook. The spiders fell loose from the Grim Reaper’s hair, and the crow hobbled about in confusion, crashing into the coffee pot.

“If you’re not out of here by tomorrow, I will personally throw you out myself!”

The Grim Reaper calmly stood up from his chair and picked up his mug. It was empty. Both his assistant and Gabriel watched slowly as the old man shuffled strangely over to the coffee machine, wondering if he’d gone senile or deaf or both.

He picked up the pot and poured himself another cup, swirling the black liquid around and around. He raised the mug up slowly and placed it to his dry lips, and didn’t remove it until the cup was drained.

“Gabriel, if my memory was as good as it used to be, I’d know how long you’d been working here. So how long has it been?”

“A few thousand years.” He asserted, slightly confused.

“Alright.”

The old man placed the mug on the cabinet and reached up to his cheek. He dug his nails deep into the skin, tearing it away like paper-cloth. He tore at his face until only the bare bone remained, shadowed by his black robe. Then he peeled away the flakey flesh from his fingers, and turned to face the door.

The little crow that had been perched on the desk suddenly took flight, swooping over the Grim Reaper’s dusty scythe and clutching it in its talons. It cawed loudly, spitting up blood as she delivered the scythe to him, and he turned around, grabbing it and posturing. As he faced Gabriel, the Grim Reaper’s eyes flared red, and Gabriel sank, face contorted with fear.

The deathly figured loomed towards the angel, the walls around them turning black as pitch. The crow fluttered about angrily, spitting up blood onto Gabriel’s white robe, cawing loudly about his trembling figure. The ghoul then slammed the end of his staff against the floor, jutting a bony finger into the angel’s terrified face.

“I’ve been working here since the dawn of fucking time. And if you had any brain in that girly head of yours, you’d get the fuck out of my office.”

The door swung open as he spoke, his voice suddenly deep; a bellowing lion’s roar. Gabriel stumbled to his feet and quickly fled out of the office screaming, the door slamming shut behind him. As he did the black walls faded again to grey, and the crow returned peacefully to the desk. He went over to his cabinets, filled with folders upon folders of paperwork, hoisted it up over his head in one swift motion. He kicked open the door and threw the cabinet into the hall, tumbling about with a clatter.

All of the people that had lined up, waiting for their judgment, suddenly balked and shrank in their places. The Grim Reaper slammed his scythe against the ground, and called out.

“If I could see the next person please?”

by Elizabeth Ferrante

Biography

I’m a writer. That is all.

“Shit. Fuck. Fuck me sideways!” she said. “Fucking Murphy’s Law, I fucking hate it!” Grete screamed. This was just her luck. A car accident two miles away from the college she was finally graduating from. It had taken her long enough!

Grete was told as a child that she was graceful and eloquent. She had never felt that way. Grete might have been graceful on a dance floor, but not anywhere else. She always believed that Edward A. Murphy was a long lost relative from the Air Force. The first date she went on was disastrous, sprinkled with a broken heel, a flat tire, and a man that loved the sound of his own voice first and foremost. After twenty three years of life, Grete had just come to expect it. If the worst could happen, it would happen to her.

#

When Grete was nine, her grace was seemingly replaced with social awkwardness. She, like most girls, wanted very desperately to fit in. The playground was approximately two miles from her house. The things that her mom was proudest of were normally the things Grete got ridiculed for. The curly, auburn hair, the beauty mark under her chin, the deep, green eyes were all ammunition for the bullies at that same playground. The “cool” girls would scoff at her and roll their eyes when she passed them in the halls. The boys were always really mean, coming up with very creative ways to belittle and demean her.

On the walk to the playground, Grete was hopeful. She was hopeful that those same kids would be nice to her, accept her. All of the popular kids were hanging next to the monkey bars, pushing a younger boy into the sandbox. Grete thought, just step right up to those monkey bars and very calmly get across. If anything, maybe the boys’ll stop pickin’ on me.

Grete did as she thought. She strutted up to the monkey bars, took a deep breath, and placed her hand around the first bar. The first two bars proved to be no problem. On the third bar, right as all of her body weight was coming forward, her hand slipped. The fall off the bar was abrupt and painful. Upon further examination, Grete found a bone sticking out of her elbow. The cool kids laughed immediately upon her impact, and scattered just as quickly when they noticed her now broken arm. The entire walk home she allowed one tear to fall.

#

The morning had started off really well. The blue jays were dancing around the elm tree in her front yard like two meringue dancers making beautiful art on a dirt road. The early beauty mesmerized Grete every morning and usually left her little time to eat or prepare for anything pertinent. The bread that Grete typically burnt on the way out the door was perfectly toasted. She ate her toast, then dragged herself out the door to the truck without brushing her hair.

Today was going to be a big day for Grete. She was graduating college from the University of Oregon with a bachelor’s degree in the Liberal Arts. A bachelor’s degree in that field was akin to college athletes that can’t decide what they’ll do if they don’t become professional athletes. As Grete had always said, “A liberal arts degree just means you couldn’t ever decide what you wanted to do with your life. It’s like getting a degree in indecision”.

Grete began to wonder what kind of job she could get with a degree in indecision. Maybe there was a company out east that sat on other people’s hands for a fee. She had always done that: zoned out about inane things that would make a stoner drink his own bong water. She had an especially bad habit of doing that while guys hit on her. As a matter of fact, Grete had always done that. For all intents and purposes, she really was an introvert.

#

By the time Grete had reached high school, puberty had kicked ass. The same boys that picked on her at the playground expressed their creativity differently now. They made comments about her lips, her hips, well, most of her anatomy. The damage had been done though. Grete admittedly enjoyed denying the boys that had been so abrasive to her during her childhood.

The popular girls spread a variety or rumors about her, ranging from a fascination with moose to her sleeping with a freshman. That was part of the reason why she didn’t have a ton of friends. Girls could be much meaner than the boys could. At least the boys wanted to fuck her.

At the Senior Prom, Grete took a nice guy. There was nothing wrong with it. She had a wonderful time: but no sex. It’s not that he didn’t try. She had worn a bra that snapped in the front. The kid had spent the first ten minutes practically pinching the top center of her back. When Grete instructed the hapless wonder to the front, he tried to unsnap the bra with one hand. In one instant, great prom turned into a Monday disaster. The bra snap had broken off and in turn, hit her directly in the eye. The trip to the emergency room was priceless too.

#

Graduation Day was finally upon her. She had worked very hard to finish school. Grete was a dreamer, always had her head in the clouds. The four year party was ending, and she was going to have to find a career. So long as nothing bad happened along the way. It was a little strange, graduating college and moving on. Grete felt like that famous quote that went something like, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” She had known and seen too many people that had graduated college only to end up sitting on their parents’ couch gainfully unemployed.

The sudden emergence of storm clouds was an ordinary one for anyone that lived in Oregon. Grete partially rolled down her windows and turned on her windshield defroster. As she merged onto the interstate, “Empire State of Mind” was playing on the radio. Grete didn’t normally listen to the radio, but her CD player was of course, broken, and holding captive her favorite Jewel album. She didn’t want to go get her stereo fixed admittedly because she did not like the idea of mechanics scoffing at her choice of whiny, chic music.

The merge onto the interstate was interrupted by a loud honk. Grete looked into her rear view mirror and there was an angry looking man flashing his high beams behind her. The assholes always come out at the hint of bad weather. It’s like they wait for the weather to change to all get in their cars and be douche bags. The driver had gotten so close to her bumper, Grete could no longer see his high beams. She glanced over to the left lane, only to realize she was blocked in. Why is this guy being such an asshole? I can’t go any fucking where!

After three miles of this, Grete’s patience was thinner than a sheet of tissue paper. So, she weighed her options, and decided to break check the driver behind her. Unfortunately, this only seemed to piss off the driver even more. The left lane had opened up, but this driver seemed unusually fascinated with her rear bumper. So, Grete got into the left lane to try to alleviate the situation. She was becoming increasingly worried that if this continued, one of them would end up hurt or dead. She thought back to her father, who had on many occasions addressed aggressive driving. Her father used to say, “If a driver makes you uncomfortable, just pull over, and get out of their way.” Those words become particularly poignant at this interval. Grete gave those words a second’s thought, and then she flashed on her hazards.

Grete passed over the ridges on the side of the interstate and coasted into the grass by the side of the road. Much to her surprise, the same angry driver was also pulling over. Oh fuck, I hope this guy doesn’t have a gun. Boy would that suck. Girl killed on interstate on her way to graduation. Grete wasn’t much for conflict, but it looked like there would be one.

Grete looked in her rear view mirror, and the man was still in his car. He seemed to be fumbling with something in the backseat. She got out of her car pensively, praying silently to herself that this could be resolved peacefully.

If this guy’s gonna kill me, I wish he would just hurry the fuck up and do it. Grete leaned on the back of her pick up truck, waiting for the man to get out of the car. She had bit every one of her nails all the way down to the cuticle. Finally, the driver got out of his car.

The driver got out of the car and something didn’t look right. It looked like one leg was longer than the other. Then, she noticed it. One of his legs had one of those Bob Marley One Love stickers on it. She thought it was strange that a grown man would shave his legs and then put a sticker on it.

The man was in his twenties, maybe early thirties. He did not, however, look angry, which was a relief. The man asked, “Everything alright?”

“Not really. You’ve been attached to my bumper for like the last five miles. You must not be in much of a hurry if you wanted to talk to little ol’ me. I was trying to get out of your way”.

“I know. I’m sorry,” the driver said.

“So you’re not gonna shoot me?” Grete could only manage a sheepish little smile. She had never been good at flirting her way out of disaster. This was as good as it got.

“What? No, I’m not gonna shoot you! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Um, I don’t know, the high beams, the tailgating, you pulling over behind me. What the hell would you think?”

The young man took a step closer to her, and he began to stumble. It looked like his sneaker had gotten stuck in the ridging that slowed down cars getting onto the shoulder. Then, his leg popped off and the driver fell flat on his face.

“Oh my fucking God! Are you alright?” Grete ran to the man to help him up. As she was helping him up, his prosthetic leg got hit by an eighteen wheeler transporting automobiles.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m a fucking dead man.” The driver put his head in his hands and angrily stomped up and down on his now, one good leg.

Grete looked over to his prosthetic limb being run over and over again, car after car. She began to notice the small, zip lock bags shooting out of his One Love limb every time a car or truck ran it over. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The driver finished his temper tantrum and hopped over to Grete. She no longer felt threatened by him. He was trying to wipe the tears out of his face. He asked, “Are you cool?” Another bag went flying out of the leg.

She didn’t know what he meant. This was so far removed from reality, she doubted her grandkids would ever believe her if she recanted this story. What does that even mean, ‘are you cool?’ “Um, yeah, I guess. Is there anything I can do to help?”

The driver said, “Yeah, when there’s a break in traffic, can you go grab my leg, and whatever else is left in there?”

“Is it drugs?”

The driver looked at her with a coy smile. “No, it’s my medicine for restless leg syndrome. Yes, it’s fucking coke, and now it’s getting all fuckin’ wet.”

There was a pause. There was no break in traffic, and they both leaned on her pickup truck waiting. The driver said, “I’m John, by the way.”

“I’m Grete. It’s been very strange meeting you, John.”

There was a break in traffic. Grete ran, grabbed the flattened leg, and tersely picked up as many little baggies as she could find. The window to run back across had closed, so she stood in the median, holding a flattened, prosthetic limb and about ten grams of cocaine. John was waving his hands back and forth from the other side of the road. She squinted to read his lips. He was saying something about her being the best. A couple of minutes later, Grete handed the baggies and the limb to John.

John hopped back to his car with his limb and his little baggies of cocaine.

“Did I get it all?” Grete asked.

“You got most of it. I wasn’t gonna quit this soon, so thank you.”

“Well, John, good luck with your um, enterprise.”

“Waddya mean, my enterprise? What, do you think I’m a thug drug dealer that sells coke to high school students?”

“Well, do you?” Grete put her hand on her hip.

“Not everybody can have mommy and daddy pay for their education.” John pulled out his University of Oregon student ID card, and showed it to her.

“That’s not what I meant, I…”

John shook his head and smiled at the same time. He said, “It’s cool. I just love makin’ you privileged kids squirm. You should be goin’ soon, don’t you have a graduation you have to go to?”

“How’d you know that?” Grete was a little alarmed.

John just smiled and pointed to her window sticker. It read, University of Oregon Class of ’10. Grete smiled, put her head down, then said, “Ahhh, don’t I feel like a moron.”

John approached her one hop at a time. He gave her a big hug, and she thought he had grabbed her butt. He got back into his car, and just as quickly as she had seen him, he was gone.

Grete nodded her head and smiled. My grandkids will never believe this ever really happened. As she got back into her pickup truck, she yelled, “FUCK! My graduation.” The screech of tires could be heard all the way to Eugene.

Grete graduated without a hitch. It wasn’t until her parents hugged her that she noticed the note in her back pocket. John hadn’t grabbed her ass at all, he had just left his number back there.

She thought about it for a while. A drug dealer using his prosthetic to hide his stash is someone I might like to know better.

#

Grete did get to tell her grandkids about it. John married her three years later, when he got his degree in physics. They just didn’t end up telling the grandkids until they were in high school.

by Daniel O’Shea
Biography

I was born in New Jersey, and I attended high school there. I attended Monmouth University while up there, and moved down to Florida in 2003. I have been enrolled in SCF for the last two or so years.